Naked Addiction (10 page)

Chapter 12

Goode

Monday

G
oode paddled his surfboard toward the horizon over the undulating waves at Black’s Beach, a nude beach that was also frequented by surfers wearing full wet suits. The sun was rising, the sky was brightening, and the fish were chattering in an odd high-pitched sound as they retreated to the ocean’s depths to retreat from the light. A good swell was coming in.

Goode was riding a wave into shore when he hit something so hard that the impact knocked him off his board. When he came up for air, he saw a woman’s body floating, alabaster white, her blue lips bobbing in and out of the water. He turned her head toward him to see her face. It was Tania, her eyes open in a wide, blank stare. Goode hoisted her onto his board and used his bungee cord to tow her in.

Three uniformed officers, leaning against a patrol car, were waiting for him on the sand. With no driveway in sight, he had no idea how they’d gotten the cruiser to the bottom of those steep cliffs. But before he could say anything, one of them handcuffed his wrists together.

“Wait, I’m a police officer, off duty—” he tried to explain.

“Hold the bullshit,” the fat older one said as they all shook their heads with disbelief or disapproval.

The older one metamorphosed into the homicide lieutenant, Doug Wilson, who tried to push Goode into the back of the cruiser, banging the detective’s head into the frame in the process. As Goode struggled to break free from Wilson’s grip, the lieutenant tied a dirty tube sock around Goode’s neck, so tight he couldn’t breathe. Why didn’t Wilson recognize him? As hard as he tried to scream, no sound would come out.

Goode woke up to find that he’d twisted himself up in the sheet, which had gotten coiled around his neck.

No wonder I can’t breathe
, he thought groggily.
Coffee is evil. It makes me sleep so fitfully. I really need to cut back on the caffeine.

The alarm clock read five thirty. He’d slept for four hours, but it felt like a lot less. He popped a couple of extra-strength painkillers.

Sergeant Stone once told him that the department frowned on any homicide detective who went surfing during the first few days of a murder investigation because he was supposed to be working around the clock. But Stone he also said that if a detective really needed to go surfing, he simply shouldn’t admit to having done so. Given the dream, though, Goode wasn’t all that upset about going without.

Rolling out of bed feeling achy and disoriented, he cocked his head to each side, trying to get the kinks out. As he shuffled into the bathroom to turn on the shower and let the water heat up, the smell of freshly brewed coffee floated in, beckoning him into the kitchen to pour some. His resolve had lasted what, two minutes?

Lighten up. This is not the time to try to quit coffee.

He’d forgotten that he’d set the timer on the coffee machine to 5:20 A.M. the night before. Still, Goode vowed to drink only two cups. He poured himself a mug-full, with generous helpings of milk and pale yellow grains of Demerara sugar.

By then the shower was just the right temperature, so he hopped in and felt himself start to wake up. He rubbed the soap into his chest and wondered why the older he got, the hairier he got. Everywhere but his head. Goode let himself stay in a little longer than he should have, letting the water stream into his face, and massage his tight upper back and tense shoulders. Forcing himself out, he dried off and wiped a circular opening in the steam on the mirror. He was in decent shape, worked out at the gym three times a week, and surfed as much as he could, but his body didn’t look as good as it used to. He turned to the side and pinched a small roll of loose flesh on either side.

How can you have love handles with no loving?

He knew he needed to do more sit-ups on the incline bench, but he just hated doing them. Leaning in toward the mirror, he pulled at the skin around his eyes. The wrinkles were getting deeper from being in the sun so much. As he ran a comb through his hair he noticed it was a little thinner on top than the last time he looked. He kept it long, below the collar, to fit in with the drug users, but he knew he couldn’t carry it off forever.

God, you’re as vain as a woman. Not good.

From reading Tania’s journal, Goode got the impression that she liked older men. He could tell she particularly liked sexual guys with a dark side—like him. At least that’s what Miranda used to tell him. Goode shook his head at his reflection.

“Get over yourself,” he said. Sometimes, he wondered who was steering the chariot in which he was riding.

Goode slapped on a thick layer of antiperspirant in anticipation of a long day that likely would turn into two. He pulled on some sweat pants and a T-shirt, hoping a quick walk on the beach would help calm his stomach so he could choke down some steak and eggs. If he didn’t have time to go surfing, at least he could check out the waves, and mentally sort through his leads.

Heading west toward the beach from his place, a guest cottage behind a fairly large house, he came up with his game plan. He would talk to Seth and Keith at the real estate office and try to track down the cab driver who had taken Tania home. London had promised to print out a list of the contacts from her cell phone for him this morning, with a binder of her recent emails and texts soon to follow. As soon as he had those in hand, he would ask Slausson and Fletcher to help him cross-reference her contacts with the short list of names from the diary and run down some of these characters.

It was about a ten-minute walk to the beach, and quiet except for the birds chirping. His neighbors had a lot more money than he did, though that category included most homeowners in La Jolla. He knew it did him no good to whine about how underpaid he was. He didn’t go into police work to get rich. It was his calling.

Traffic was light so he crossed La Jolla Boulevard in the middle of the block and jogged slowly down the hill until he reached the sidewalk overlooking Westbourne, the beach at the foot of the street by that name. A block to the south was Windansea, where a dozen or so surfers were riding the five- or six-foot waves. Just like in his dream.

Too bad I don’t have time to get out there today.

The palm trees were almost still, their fronds wavering only slightly when the breeze picked up. Oddly enough, the sky looked like his dream too. It kind of creeped him out.

A little girl, about six years old, was frolicking at the water’s edge. She ran out to meet the tide, squealing and giggling as the white foam washed over her feet, and then ran back to safety. She bent over to scoop some of it into her hands and watched it ooze through her fingers. As she turned to look north, up the beach, one of her yellow bikini straps fell off her shoulder. She didn’t seem to see Goode standing at the top of the hill behind her, and he couldn’t see what had captured her attention, because a couple of large boulders blocked his view. Just then, a beige mutt emerged, limping, from behind their jagged edge.

Aha. But what’s she doing out here alone at 6:30 A.M.? Where are her parents?

Just then, a set of eight-footers began to crest and lean towards the shore, but with her back to the water and her eyes on the dog, the little girl didn’t even notice. As the first wave was about to hit, Goode tried to warn her.

“Hey, watch out!” he yelled. “A big wave is coming!”

But she didn’t hear him. Goode knew he could never make it down the hillside, which was covered with hundreds of sharp stones, in time to save her. He tried yelling again, but it was no use.

She jumped as the wave crashed on the sand right behind her. Goode felt paralyzed with helplessness as he watched the wall of whitewash bowl her over. She didn’t even have time to scream before it swallowed her. The dog, which was far enough away from the ocean to escape the same fate, had stopped to lick his wounded paw. But as soon as he saw that the girl had disappeared, he took off, limping as fast as he could, to the foamy spot where she’d gone down.

The next wave was about to hit when something finally let go inside Goode. He tore down the hill, slipping and almost falling as he clambered over the rocks. He tried to plow through the dry, sluggish sand to reach the wet, hard stuff, but he was moving so slowly it felt like his dream had never ended. Goode barely missed sticking his foot in an illegal pile of smoldering coals, left from a bonfire the night before. He managed to swerve around them just in time, but by then, the girl’s head had come up a ways down the beach, where she was struggling to stay afloat.

There must be some gnarly rip tide to drag her that far south so fast.

Two boys, about nine or ten years old, appeared from behind the boulders and sprinted toward her. They got to her first, dove in and pulled her out, wailing, but alive. Goode stopped running. He felt like a total failure, but he also felt relieved that she was all right. He gulped in air as he stood there, hands on his hips.

He heard the wet dog before he saw him, panting, at his feet. The dog sniffed the bottom of Goode’s wet sweatpants, then shook himself, spraying Goode with saltwater. The mutt looked up at him with an expression that said he felt as bad as Goode did for letting that little girl down. Goode bent to stroke the dog’s head as he watched the girl carefully place one foot in front of the other, shaking as she clutched the boys’ shorts. They were about to pass Goode when he called out to them.

“Hey, good job you guys. I couldn’t get there in time. Is she all right?”

“Yeah, she’s just scared,” the older boy said.

As they headed for the stairs leading to the house with the giant palm tree, the younger boy called to the dog. “C’mere, boy.” The mutt limped after them and didn’t give Goode another thought.

Ah, the incredible lightness of being forgiven
, he thought, playing off the title of one of his favorite novels. It was more than Goode could say for himself. He’d been a little boy when his mother jumped, so he hadn’t been able to save her. But today he was an adult, and he still hadn’t done any better with this little girl. Maybe he shouldn’t even be a cop. Wasn’t that his job, to save and protect? He kicked at a mound of dry sand, sending it into the air and back into his eyes. Frustrated as hell wasn’t a good way to start the day.

Chapter 13

Goode

G
oode drove through the empty streets of La Jolla to Harry’s Coffee Shop, a family-owned restaurant and a cornerstone of the downtown area, which the locals called the Village. Growing up, he’d often eaten breakfast there or at the now-defunct John’s Waffle Shop before hitting the courts at 7 A.M. with his cohorts on the La Jolla High School tennis team.

Goode’s parents were never rich—just a couple of high school teachers who got lucky and found a great deal on a house only a couple of blocks from work. They never had enough money to shop at the high-end boutiques in the Village, so they shopped at the malls like the rest of Middle America.

After Goode’s mother died, his father said he had too many bad memories in La Jolla and couldn’t handle the stress of raising two little kids by himself. So he left Kenny Jr. and Maureen with his sister, Katherine, at her bungalow, and took off to work on a ranch in Montana. Goode and Maureen used to visit him there during the summer, but he became more and more like a distant uncle. He never remarried and died of a heart attack at fifty-two. Goode figured it was more of a broken heart.

Aunt Katherine sold the bungalow after Maureen graduated high school and moved into a nice condo, where she lived until she met a rich retired finance guy whose gold-digger wife had run off with a younger and wealthier investment banker. After Katherine and her new husband moved to Hawaii, Maureen was really Goode’s only family, and vice versa. He’d always hoped to buy a house of his own in La Jolla, but even with the nice gift money his aunt sent him every birthday, he knew he’d need another income to do it.

Goode often thought of his mother at odd times. Like that morning at the beach and now, as he opened the door to Harry’s, where he was greeted by a new hostess who was old enough to be his mother, but was nowhere near as beautiful as the real thing.

“Right this way,” she said, swaying her hips as she made her way between the counter stools and tables at the back of the restaurant. Her light blond hair was pulled into a knot on the top of her head, exposing salt and pepper roots at the neck. She looked like she’d been pretty once.

“If you need anything, my name is Dawn,” she said, her face erupting into a smile of craggy wrinkles as she pointed him toward an empty booth. “It’s my first day.”

The skin under her eyes, which were rimmed with black liner, was a pale violet.

Too much booze, a lack of sleep, or both. She has a sweet way about her, though.

Martha, his favorite waitress, seemed stressed, her red hair sticking out in tufts like Bozo the Clown. Her green eye shadow was smeared down the left side of her face and her forehead shone with perspiration. Still, she looked pretty good considering she’d gone to work at seventeen after having her second illegitimate child. And more importantly, she had more than her share of spunk. She looked like she could use a sit-down, but they were both too busy for that this morning.

“The usual, honey?” Martha said as she slopped some coffee into his mug.

Goode nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Martha. You’re the best.”

He’d grabbed a copy of the
Sun-Dispatch
out of the machine on the street after seeing Norman Klein’s story at the top of the front page. He spread it out on the table and started to read it.

BEAUTY SCHOOL STUDENT SLAIN IN PACIFIC BEACH

By Norman Klein

PACIFIC BEACH—A beauty school student was found dead in the alley behind her apartment complex yesterday afternoon, wearing nothing but a man’s pin-striped shirt, police said.

The body of Tania Marcus, 24, who moved to San Diego from Los Angeles about six weeks ago to attend a new school for entrepreneurial beauticians in Bird Rock, was found Sunday about 3 P.M.

“It was her red toenails that stuck with me,” Detective Ken Goode said.

Goode pounded the table with his fist.

“That damn kid,” he said louder than he’d intended. He’d told him not to quote him. Didn’t any reporter know what “off the record” meant anymore? Getting quoted in the newspaper would only mean trouble from the brass. He’d have to give that kid a piece of his mind.

He kept reading and saw that the little bastard had even called Tania’s mother. Apparently, she’d been distraught because the quotes made her sound quite incoherent. Goode was about to call the paper and give Klein a piece of his mind when his cell phone rang. It was Sergeant Stone.

Goode tried to do a proactive strike, but Stone had already seen the article.

“File it under ‘lessons learned,’” the sergeant said.

Stone told him that Byron would handle autopsy duties that morning at the county Medical Examiner’s Office. Goode, he said, should proceed with his other leads until he or Byron could call him back with any notable results. It would be a few hours.

There had been some developments, he added, which could be positive or not, depending on your perspective. The owner of Tania’s apartment complex, who happened to be president of the PB Town Council and a personal friend of Police Chief Chuck Thompson, had called the chief at home that morning, asking for the investigation to be expedited. The owner was concerned about having a murderer on the loose. Not just Tania’s neighbors, but other young women who lived in apartment complexes he owned nearby could also be in danger.

“My biggest concern, though, is the chief,” Stone said. “He walked into my office first thing and told me not to go home until my team solves this case. And he was only half-kidding.”

The good thing was that this got them a faster autopsy and a put rush on their crime lab tests. The bad thing was that it brought undue attention and pressure to the team of relief investigators, who were already at a disadvantage given their lack of full-time experience.

“But if that wasn’t enough, a bunch of clowns from the national news shows have already deluged the media office with calls this morning, asking for updates from the story on the wires last night,” he said. “Just our luck. We did get hit with a slow news week. Thompson asked me to update him all day today because GMA called.”

“GMA?” Goode asked.

“Yeah,
Good Morning America
. He’s going to do a taped interview at the local affiliate today and doesn’t want to sound stupid on national television. So keep me in the loop with whatever little nothing you get,
capiche
?”

“Great,” Goode said sarcastically. “
Capiche
.”

After running down his game plan with Stone, Goode didn’t even finish his breakfast. He’d lost his appetite and needed some air.

Outside, he took some deep breaths. The sun seemed unusually bright for 7:30 A.M. It was going to be another hot one. Remembering being a teenager and feeling the excitement of a great beach day when the sun was this bright so early in the day, he decided to view it as a good omen.

He started driving toward PB, checking in with Slausson and Fletcher on his cell and passing on the bad news about the national media BS. He also conveyed Stone’s instructions about their duties for the day and arranged to compare notes throughout the day. In addition to the original tasks, Goode also asked them to run a background check on Keith Warner.

“As soon as I get Seth’s last name, we’ll need to run a check on him, too,” he said.

Goode parked down the street from the Lazowsky & Pucchi office, plenty early to watch Seth and Keith arrive at work, observe their moods and body language, and then head in as if he knew everything about them.

While he was waiting, he called the manager at Yellow Cab and asked if his log showed a pickup at Pumphouse on Friday night.

“I’ve got it right here,” the manager said proudly. “A short fare to fifty-five Jewell Street in PB.”

“Wait, what was the address again?” Goode asked, surprised to hear an address that wasn’t Tania’s. The manager repeated it as Goode frantically flipped through his notebook, looking for a match.

Damn. That’s Alison’s address.

“Can you see if you have another fare that night?”

There was a long pause while Goode heard the clicking of computer keys.

“Sorry. That’s all I got.”

He got the driver’s name, cell number and schedule for the next couple of days. Goode wanted to show the guy photos of Tania and Alison to see if he might have taken Alison home first, and then Tania. The manager said the driver often didn’t answer his cell phone because he taught karate during the day and didn’t want to crush it in a fall.

Goode wondered if maybe the driver didn’t want to leave any trace of Tania’s address in the log for some reason. Like maybe she’d refused his advances on the short ride to her apartment, so he came back the next night, raped and strangled her. It sounded a bit far-fetched, but knowing her background, anyone with a penis was a suspect.

He stood in front of the picture window at the real estate office and saw a red-haired woman near the back, holding a heart-shaped mirror up to her face. At the reception area, a brunette wearing a low-cut red dress was bent over, moving papers around on a desk, her breasts practically falling out.

I wonder if she knows she’s giving passers-by a cheap thrill. My guess would be yes, she does.

Two young men, one with dark hair and one with sandy blond hair, were talking near a row of antique wooden filing cabinets. He recognized the blond as Keith Warner, so the other one had to be Seth. Almost like shooting fish in a barrel.

When Goode opened the heavy glass door, Seth and Keith were so engrossed in conversation they didn’t even notice him.

“What can we do for you today, sir?” asked the bubbly receptionist, a middle-aged woman who sadly appeared to be a
Playboy
centerfold wannabe has-been.

Goode flashed his badge, which shut down her enthusiasm. “I need to talk to those two gentlemen, actually,” he said, nodding toward them.

“Oh, okay,” she said, looking a little worried. “Go on back.”

Seth and Keith still hadn’t seen him. “Gentlemen?” Goode said rhetorically as he approached.

Seeing Goode, Keith looked anxious. Seth, on the other hand, looked unflappable as he smiled and offered his hand.

“Seth Kennedy. What can we help you with?” 

Goode politely exchanged the handshake and showed him the badge. Seth didn’t even blink. He gave off the air of a guy who would sell a termite-infested house without feeling one ounce of guilt.

Goode turned to Keith, who was blinking rapidly. “Keith Warner,” the blond mumbled, purposely not offering his hand. The detective nodded, but didn’t let on that he already knew his name.

“I’d like to ask you two a few questions about Tania Marcus,” Goode said.

“Sure,” Seth said, glancing over at the red-haired woman, whom Goode figured was the boss. Seth motioned them into a glass-walled conference room and closed the door behind them. It felt like they were fish in a bowl without any water, but that didn’t bother Goode. He wasn’t a potential suspect for murder being questioned by police with his boss watching.

Seth reeked of a full Armani wallet, a red Mazarati with a black leather interior and two six-packs of imported beer on ice in the trunk, no different from the guys he’d hated in high school. The snotty jerks whose fathers were neurosurgeons, corporate attorneys and real estate developers. Who spent Christmas vacations skiing with their families in the Swiss Alps. And who went to dinner-dances every Friday night at the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club. Goode had always resented the hell out of those guys.

He was curious what Seth would say about Tania’s death; the guy could easily parrot what he’d read in the newspaper. Goode kicked himself for failing to swallow his anger and finish Norman’s story so he’d know what the word on the street was.

“So, how well did you know Tania?” he asked, not addressing the question specifically to either one of them. He just let it hang in the air, watching their faces closely. Keith’s left eye twitched before he let out a small chirp. Goode looked at him for an explanation.

“Sorry,” Keith said. “I’ve got Tourette’s syndrome.”

Seth, obviously used to the chirping, went on as if it weren’t unusual or distracting, which it most certainly was, then settled back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking guarded.

“Not that well,” Seth said. “I met her Friday night. We really clicked and I ended up staying at her place that night. She was supposed to meet up with us Saturday night but she never showed up. Then, last night, I saw the story on the news and was absolutely shocked. She seemed like a really nice girl. I figured you guys would want to talk to me sooner or later.”

Keith chirped again as he moved around in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Goode asked.

“Well, because I was with her until Saturday afternoon, and I’m sure my fingerprints are all over her apartment,” he said matter-of-factly, his eye drawn to something going on in the outer office. Goode followed his gaze to the redhead, who grabbed her leather briefcase and said something to the receptionist as she headed out the front door. The receptionist swiveled her chair around to face the three human fish, continuing to file her nails as if she wasn’t watching the interview. Goode figured the boss told her to practice her lip-reading skills.

“Seth,” he said, trying to regain his attention. “Have you ever been fingerprinted?”

“Nope.”

It occurred to Goode that Seth might have been arrested and released before he was booked, thanks to a well-connected family attorney. “Well then, how would we know they were your prints in the apartment?”

“I don’t know. I just thought—” Seth trailed off and shook his head, glancing away.

“You thought what?”

He stared right into Goode’s eyes, probably the same way he did when he was closing a deal. “I was concerned you were going to think I did it. And I didn’t.”

Smart boy
. “Well, that’s not out of the realm of possibility,” he said. “We aren’t ruling anyone out as a suspect right now. When did you last see her?”

Leaning his arms on the table, Seth glanced up at the wall clock as if it might help tell his story. “Well, I left her apartment around two thirty on Saturday afternoon. We’d stayed up all night—” he said, pausing, “getting to know each other. So we slept late and then just lounged around for a while. She said she wanted to take a long bath and do a few things before she and her friend met us at Pumphouse. Said she’d be there at eight or eight thirty. I got to the bar at eight fifteen and she wasn’t there. Keith showed up at nine and we had a few beers. I called her around nine thirty and got her machine. I called one more time around ten, but there was still no answer.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“No. We ended up leaving and went to a party out by San Diego State. It seemed a little strange considering we’d gotten along so well, but I just figured she freaked out at how fast things were going and blew me off. I mean, I met her in a bar, you know? I hardly knew her. There are a lot of flakes out there.”